Fever Mist (4 page)

T
HE MAN AT THE
door was no goblin. No fairy, no leprechaun, no brownie. No fae
at all at all
, as Niall of the Nine used to say.

The man pounding on Max’s front door was human.

He was Max’s height, a little over six feet tall, stick thin—and gaudy, all pink and red and black and white. What was a king’s fool from the human realm doing in fae? And how had he come so deep as the Blue Vale without being put to use as some fairy’s toy?

On closer examination, this was no fool. The fabrics of his costume were of far too superior quality. Over a calf-length, rose-pink silk tunic he wore a lush dove-gray mantle embroidered with pink and red apple blossoms. On his brow was a hammered copper circlet in the shape of blackberry leaves. Strands of silver and gray infiltrated his long black hair, yet his face and demeanor were that of a young and vigorous warrior.

His blue-gray eyes were old, and his gaze burned with intent.

“The wyrd have no power here,” Max blurted out. He’d never seen a wyrder in the vale—and he was disoriented. The taste and sizzle and befuddlement of that red-haired fairy’s kiss had yet to leave him.

He scanned the area beyond his door, embarrassed by his uncivil tone. There were but few gobs about, and all going about their business. Indeed, no one seemed to notice the strange visitor on his doorstep.

“Eh, you’d better come in.” Max led the wyrder inside.

To make up for the rude greeting, he went to the kitchen and pulled two pints of stout. He returned with the tankards to find the wyrder sitting by the cold fireplace in the good chair.

Max had carved the rocking chair from a single burl and infused it with a comfort charm. No gob who ever sat there got up again without making an offer on it, but the wyrder didn’t even look at ease, let alone extraordinarily comfortable.

“Well, you’re in my house, wyrder.” Max put a tankard down on the little table beside the rocker. “Will you give me your name and purpose?”

“My name is Merlyn.” No protest at being called a wyrder.

“I’ve heard that name.”

The corners of the wyrder’s mouth twitched, and his brow softened.

“You’re brother to Morwenna of Avalos.”

“Avalos.”

“The apple isle, sacred home of the wyrd. The abbess is called Morwenna—or was, the last I heard anything of it. She’s supposedly a great wyrding woman.”

Max had heard nothing in praise or contempt for the powers of the abbess of Avalos, but something about this wyrder’s pride bugged him.

“Morwenna’s magics are adequate,” Merlyn said. “I now live in the mundane realm. I serve Utros Pendragon, who will one day be king of all Dumnos.”

“Very nice, but what’s that to do with me?”

“Don’t doubt me, goblin. I have seen it.” Merlyn stopped and drank. More politely, he said, “I come to beg a favor of Maxim of the Blue Vale, the greatest of all goblins. But you must come to the human realm in order to bestow this favor.”

Intriguing. “Now that statement is bursting with interesting assumptions and presumptions, wyrder.”

“I try.” Merlyn’s eyes twinkled. “What do I assume and presume?”

“You assume that I’m even a great goblin, let alone the greatest of all goblins. Vulsier is the one you want.”

“Vulsier, pish-posh. You
will be
the greatest goblin. I have seen it. One day you’ll be king not only of the goblins but of all the Dumnos fae.”

“King. Me.” For a moment Max lost the thread. His brain, and other parts, went straight to his mind’s picture of that thieving fairy. Now wouldn’t he just love to be her king, to see those blue eyes go green for him again, to hear that saucy, wind-chime voice call him
my lord
…

“Yes, yes. All in good time,” Merlyn said.

Max pulled back. Could this wyrder read thoughts? “You also assume that a favor from any fae is given for the asking—or without a return.”

“Quite the contrary, Maxim. I expect to pay… and dearly.” The wyrder drank his stout and stared at the cold fireplace. For half a second, a reflection of flames flickered in his eyes. “So much for assumptions,” he said. “What are my presumptions?”

“Hm.” There was something off about this whole thing. Something not right. Max said, “You presume that you’ll easily return to the mundane world. How do you intend to get out of fae?”

“Not a problem. Technically, I’m not there… Here… There.”

Merlyn raised a hand and pressed it against some kind of support Max couldn’t see, a wall or tree trunk. The wyrder wore but one ornament on that hand, a simple double ring, two bands entwined, one silver, one gold.

“As I said, the wyrd have no power in the fae realm,” Max said. “And yet I feel great power coming off that ring.”

“And as I said, I haven’t come to fae. I’m not actually there with you.”

“I see you. You’re sitting in my rocking chair, drinking my stout from the tankard I handed you.”

“It would appear so. This is my proxy spirit you see. It’s a spell of my own design. I’m delighted to see how well it works.”

Max reached out to touch the human and felt something real enough, a kind of energy or power. He grasped at it, but it slipped away, nothing he could hold on to.

“Give me your hand, young Maxim of the Blue Vale.” Merlyn stretched forth an insubstantial hand. “The time has come for your leap of faith.”

There was not an instant’s hesitation. Young and open-minded—or young and foolish—he believed in himself, and he was ravenous to know… everything.

Max couldn’t
not
take that hand.

« Chapter 5 »
Desire is the Fire

T
HE FIRST THING THAT
hit Max was the ocean air—cold, salty, alive—and the breezes accompanied by the pounding of waves on the rocks at the foot of the cliffs where he stood. He was in the human realm, beside a great tree that itself hummed with mystical power.

This must be Igdrasil, the world tree of the Dumnos wyrd.

Beyond the cliffs and Tintagos Bay was the Severn Sea, and on the horizon a mist churned and undulated, racing toward land like an ocean god’s team of water horses. The Dumnos mist, spoken of in the Blue Vale, was darker than he’d expected, quite out of keeping with what he’d heard. The mist did not appear benign.

He turned to the sounds of shouting men and clanging swords and saw fields covered with tents and hundreds of warriors. Nearby a laughing crowd surrounded and cheered on two knights engaged in a demonstration of swordplay.

To the north a castle at cliff’s edge flew the pennant of its occupant from the highest tower, indicating the lord was at home. The stronghold wasn’t under siege, judging by the festive camaraderie among the encamped knights, but its drawbridge was closed—a shocking withholding of hospitality on the part of the resident lord. Had human men no manners?

“Come, Sir Goblin.” Merlyn indicated a carpet spread on the ground and a pile of soft-looking cushions. “Take some refreshment, and watch.”

“Watch?” Max sniffed at the bestowed title.

“See there.” Merlyn nodded. The castle drawbridge began to lower. “That’s Tintagos. Its walls are inviolate, warded by magic impenetrable by men or the magic of wyrd or fae. From this position of strength, Duke Gorlas imagines he’ll soon rule over all these men as king of Dumnos. Ah. His lady, Igraine, rides out now to meet him.”

A procession of ladies on horseback rode through the gate, but Max’s attention went to the castle itself, his curiosity aroused, his competence challenged.

Impenetrable by men or magic.

“Just so,” Merlyn said, again with the irritating implication he’d read Max’s thoughts. “The northwest wall is built sheer to the cliffs. Tunnels run from the keep down to Tintagos Bay, allowing for constant restocking of supplies during a siege.”

As the ladies progressed from the castle, each group of knights and squires they passed stopped all conversations and play to bow or nod.

“Have some wine, Maxim,” Merlyn said.

Max accepted a goblet and joined the wyrder on the carpet, but the view had been better standing.

Merlyn withdrew a leather pouch from an interior pocket in his cloak and untied its strings. “Move back a little there, Maxim. And do not utter a sound until I give you leave.” He pulled a handful of dust from the pouch and tossed it into the air. “Utros! Utros! Utros!”

The air between wyrder and goblin shimmered and distorted, giving the appearance of a distant mirage on a hot summer’s day. An apparition slowly took form and came into focus, two men in the midst of an intense exchange. The dark-haired man turned, and the blond man followed his gaze to a beautiful lady dismounting a horse, one of those who’d come from the castle.

Max looked back to the camp. There the original scene unfolded in time with this close-up view.

“Gorlas.” The woman in the apparition bowed to the dark-haired man. “As you commanded, my lord, I’ve brought meat for your meal and wine for your company.” She kept her eyes cast down, and her voice trembled, only slightly, with passion—not love, Max thought, but passionate hate.

The dark mist had reached land, had hit the cliffs and crawled up and over, onto the fields. It entered the apparition like a character, as if it too had a part to play in the pantomime.

“You may serve me, Igraine,” Gorlas said. “And my guest, Lord Utros, as well.”

Utros. The name in Merlyn’s conjuration.

Max examined the blond man with new interest but found nothing remarkable in his countenance. He was about thirty, healthy enough, strong and decent-looking, and with a confident swagger.

Lady Igraine poured out the wine. The mist wafted about the hem of her skirt, though no one in the picture took notice. “My lord.” She spoke almost under her breath and handed Utros a goblet.

Gorlas stiffened at the tenderness in his lady’s manner but acted as if he didn’t notice. Merlyn held up a hand to stop any inadvertent comment. Max understood: to speak would break the charm.

Utros couldn’t take his eyes away from Lady Igraine, which gave Gorlas obvious pleasure.

“You see why I have Tintagos warded,” Gorlas said. “My wife is the most beautiful woman in all the isles. Who wouldn’t want her?”

Igraine blushed, and Utros looked as if his heart would burst. Yesterday, Max wouldn’t have recognized the expression, but today he empathized with the pain of the man’s desire.

“Enough.” Merlyn waved his hands.

The apparition decomposed and faded to nothing.

“The lords of Dumnos are gathered here to form a campaign against Saxon invaders from the north,” Merlyn told Max. “After their victory, which I have foreseen, one of these lords will be declared king, and there will be two generations of peace in the land.”

“Then what do you need me for?” Max said.

“The high gods have favored Gorlas, and prophesy does hold that his lady, Igraine, will be mother to a great and powerful king. Therefore Gorlas has refused hospitality to his fellow lords, terrified one will seduce his wife. At the same time, he parades her before them like a taunt.”

Max was already disgusted with the ways of men. Their lack of manners was intolerable. He shouldn’t have come.

“You saw the fever mist infect them. Igraine’s fever is for Utros, and his is for her. Gorlas won’t keep his woman, and he’ll never rule. The mist increased only his paranoid lust for power, which generally ends in losing power. Without a strong monarch, Dumnos will fall into chaos. I need your help to ensure that Utros becomes king of Dumnos and, more importantly that he father Igraine’s child, the great king to come.”

The fever mist.
No better name for it. Could the fever mist have penetrated the Blue Vale? Max couldn’t stop thinking about that fairy. Her hair dashing off in every direction with no attempt at decorum. Her expressive brow doing nothing to subdue the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. That cute little—

“Merlyn!” Utros, in the flesh and riding a roan stallion, halted at the edge of the carpet and jumped to the ground. “Merlyn, I would speak with you.”

“Of course, your grace. How can I be of service?” Merlyn shot Max a sideways glance, and the goblin abandoned his cushion to the duke.

“I must have her, Merlyn,” Utros said.

“Her?”

“Don’t play it coy, damn it. You promised I would be king, and you said Igraine would be my queen.”

“I promised nothing!” The wyrder fairly hissed. “The sight spoke, not I! You
will
be king, Utros Pendragon. Not a promise. It’s a fact.”

“And Igraine,” Utros said. “There can be no other woman with that name. Or if there is, it doesn’t matter. This is the one for me. I feel it in my… in my soul!”

“Yes, in your soul, I’m sure.” Merlyn sighed. “You would, wouldn’t you? The gods will have their way.”

“I must have her, wizard.”

Merlyn winced at the epithet, but he bore the insult.

“I must have her tonight, while the fire still burns in her eyes.” Utros finished his wine and slammed the goblet down. “Tonight, do you hear? Or I’ll go mad.”